


Contract

by perceptivefics



Series: Homestuck XXX One-Offs [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, Nook Eating, POV Second Person, Tentabulges, casteplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-23 23:36:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13798725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perceptivefics/pseuds/perceptivefics
Summary: There's an agreement here that if Dualscar doesn't kill him for sneaking on his ship, Psii will indulge him and his lonely warmblood fetish.





	Contract

**Author's Note:**

> Filled for an anon on Tumblr who wanted Dualpsii. I would have drawn it, but I am famously incapable of giving Dualscar anything resembling design consistency. Very short little romp. Have fun!

He forces you on your knees like it’s nothing. The action never ceases to amaze you, no matter how many times he does it. You have over him -  _ easily  _ \- well above a hundred pounds of fat and muscle. But what he lacks in form, he makes up in raw telekinetics. You’re both powerhouses in different respects; in your personal opinion, it balances out rather well.

 

“So sorry,  _ Captain, _ I think my ears are malfunctioning.” The psionic stowaway levels you with a sharp look, eyes narrowed. “You maybe wanna repeat that?”

 

Little bolts of energy zap between his horns as he adds more pressure on your shoulders. It has you bowing at the waist, though you absolutely refuse to buckle. Hope he likes the show of your core muscles quivering under the weight. You can’t use your hands - he’s got those locked behind you, too, forearms crossed one over the other. Lots of troublesome slaves have gone in and out of your hold shackled that way.

 

You grin at him, all needled teeth in a challenging snarl. “Which part? The one where I should whip you for not following orders, or the one where you’re a dirty little piss-colored shitstain?”

 

All he does is flick his head to one side, but the result is you feeling like your head’s been sent into a tailspin. A hard psychic shove stops you with the end of your nose just short of the ornate carpet on your cabin floor. His speech lisp echoes: in your head, on the walls. Not quite like the skull-scraping cacophany of glass-cut rasping when you make your sweeply visits to the Grand Highblood, and thank  _ fuck  _ for that.

 

“Am I piss-colored, or am I a shitstain?” He wonders. You can’t see his face, but you  _ know  _ he’s grinning like the cocky little gremlin he is. You  _ growl  _ from the pit of your chest.

 

_ “Both,  _ ‘cause you’re a smart-assed piece of shit and you’re pissing me off!”

 

“Oooh! Good point!” He exclaims, clapping his hands together firmly. “Not that it matters, ‘cause I’m not the lazy brine-sucking fuck on the floor.  _ Bowing  _ to said piss-colored shitstain.”

 

The growling gets louder. There’s a cursory struggle to sit up, but it won’t do much good. You both know that. Not that you’ll admit it aloud, but it should be noted you’re a little jealous of how easily he was born to his prowess. It took you  _ sweeps  _ to equalize strength with notoriety, but this lowblood battery boy you picked up from the cargo hold probably crawled out of the caverns with his. A lot of blood, sweat, and tears were involved in this body of yours. A lot of scars. “Dualscar” is just your earned nick for the most famous mark, but you have them all over: long, smooth valleys of healed skin, carving out jagged paths through a dark-gray canvas of tiny placoid scales.

 

And as far as noteworthy presence, yours more or less filled itself in once you got your Orphaner position. Psiioniic’s followed him after he busted out of his last helmsman assignment.

 

You  _ could  _ turn him in for a pretty coin - theoretically.

 

But then again, why would you want to?

 

It was easier than anticipated to manage your dirty little secret. You weren’t the one who discovered him hiding among the barrels, but by God were you the one to drag him aside. Nobody asks questions when he strolls boldly into your cabin, or when you show the next day covered in bruises and cuts. They know the consequences for asking too much after their Captain. Psii is rowdy enough that he presumably keeps getting called in for punishment, and that rumor holds itself up rather well, since he often leaves about as marked up as you. His flight suit hides most of it - not all. Just most.

 

It’s curious to you now when you think about it: he very easily could have wiped you out, along with the whole crew. But on the other hand, he knows nothing of steering a vessel like yours. You’ve no engine to strap him into; which might be exactly why he picked your ship to hide in, with all honesty. A tentative agreement in the open waters: relatively tolerated passage away from land, and the lot of you get to keep your thinkpans where they belong.

 

And now you’re here again: on your knees, head pulled up by the horns, while the stowaway uses his height advantage to direct your face to his nook. The bonus for keeping him alive is unspoken, and neither of you addresses the possibility of a quadrant. If he feels at all the way you do, he says nothing of the sort. It could just as easily be a case where he empathizes with your particular loneliness just enough that he’s using you in his favor for staying hidden.

 

You run your tongue between his folds in long, cold strokes, nose pressed to the burgeoning sheath of his bulge. He complains about how cold you are in the same breath as he moans and pulls your hair. He’s got two bulges that make a mess of yellow all over your face, which he’s obviously proud of as you grab them, trying to control some of the wriggling by pumping them firmly in your hand. When you anchor him with another hand on his ass (not much to grab there, but it’s something), he settles, trapped against you but still calling the shots. If ever something goes wrong, he could stop you if he really wanted to.

 

You’re not allowed to touch yourself unless he lets you, but the beauty of it is that you don’t  _ have  _ to. There’s... _ things  _ this filthy, beautiful creature can do with his mind. He only has to think of it, and it’s like the arcs of electricity between his horns are crackling against your skin, crawling up into your nook and bulge. The sensation is always more overwhelming than you expect and patently indescribable - but it’s  _ fucking amazing  _ when it happens, and it’s a good incentive to make sure he likes what you do with your mouth. Later, if he’s satisfied, he’ll stuff you full of both bulges and have you spilling your material all over the bed. The ultimate private enjoyment that none onboard will ever know except for you.

 

So he might just be taking advantage of the sexual outlet in order to stay hidden from the Empress. And you might be using that to skate along the edges of something approaching the only meaningful connection of your career. But the smug way he always grins - crooked teeth and all - sticks in your head, and the strength of him  _ bevwitches  _ you in ways you don’t expect. So things are fine as they are, for now.

 

You’ll take what you can get.


End file.
